


Where the Nightshade Grows

by KitschyKit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Haunted Houses, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Memory Loss, Murder Mystery, Obnoxious amounts of foreshadowing, Softer than you expect, Summoning Circles, Supernatural Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Fingering, followed by a quick and easy resolution because I'm a sucker for happy endings, mild psychological horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/pseuds/KitschyKit
Summary: Dr. Aziraphale does not believe in spreading rumors, especially ones about grieving widows. She does not believe that such a lovely woman should have to wither away in a drafty old Manor. And, above all, she certainly doesnotbelieve in ghosts.Lady Crowley bends under the weight of her many secrets, and wonders how many times she can break her own heart.The Haunting of Eden Manor, told in two parts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 162





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the M25 server, and my fellow brainstormers Pam, Dintay, and Kaz from when we went feral over gothic horror lesbians. This is a little clumsy of an AU typed all on my phone while on vacation, so it’s more of a collection of snippets strung together.
> 
> And a HUGE thank you to Cham, who took this mess and made it readable. I live in awe of your technical skills and endless patience.

_“Remember my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.” —Dracula_

Aziraphale wakes up in her new office, disoriented from the move. Boxes of her things are scattered high around the small dwelling, and she rises from her bed, her locket bouncing against her chest. 

It's beginning to dawn, although it doesn’t look like it, grey mist rolling through the village as dark clouds hang heavy and low, the change of the season making itself known. 

Moving quickly, she bustles around the small space, putting off fully unpacking yet again, as she has something much more _exciting_ planned, and she doesn’t want to waste a moment. 

Tucking her journal to her satchel, she climbs into the waiting carriage, her movements distant, as if in a dream, so consumed as she was by her plans: for today she was venturing to Eden Manor, the estate of the widowed Lady Crowley. 

She has been invited, of course. As the town’s newest physician she is supposed to make a house call and become acquainted with the widow; but her reasons for accepting were multi-layered. 

_Her library,_ Aziraphale writes in her journal as the carriage floats through the morning mist, i _s rumored to have no equal. A collection of carefully curated treasures made of paper and ink. As her late Husband was a doctor himself, they say nothing is more prized to her than the medical journals— some of which he had written! I am eager to see what I may learn, but I am also cautious of overstaying my welcome, as she is still grieving._

She pauses, pen poised as she admits to herself the second facet of her curiosity. _The Manor is also rumored to be haunted, and while I don’t like to dismiss people’s fears out of principle, it seems rather unfair to accuse someone of nefarious intent. Many who stay as guests are simply uncomfortable by grief, and I can imagine that must fuel discontent. I would like to see for myself and come to my own conclusions._

Aziraphale is dropped off at the gate, the driver barreling on the moment she’s off, disappearing around the bend. 

Eden Manor is— overgrown. The road has patches of green, and the summer grass remains uncut and waist high on either side of her as she walks. The only other living beings in sight are the crows that sit high and pretty in a tree that overlooks the front yard, a natural beacon at the end of the path. Vines climb high up the exposed stonework, a shattered-mirror pattern of green and brown, and Aziraphale can see as she gets closer that the curtains are drawn on all the windows, blocking out anyone and anything. 

When she arrives at the door, she expects it to be opened by a butler or housekeeper, but it is opened by none other than the Lady herself. 

Aziraphale knows this instinctively, staring at the striking woman in black. The veil is low enough to cover her eyes, but unable to hide her stony expression, trembling lips pursed. In Aziraphale’s mind, there is no one else it could be. 

“Lady Crowley, I presume,” she says, inclining slightly as a bow. “I am Dr. Aziraphale Wright. I want to thank you again for extending the invitation to explore your library.” 

Crowley nods once, sharply, and her smile holds no amusement, even as her shoulders sag and her voice contains a hint of exhausted mirth. “The library. Of course, it's— what I mean to say is, ah, please come inside.” 

The widow's mood seems flighty, jumping from one emotion to the next in a way that Aziraphale can’t quite follow, but she still offers a polite smile as she crosses the threshold. 

The Lady pauses to let Aziraphale take in the entry room, almost as if she was seeking approval, waiting a heartbeat too long. 

“Would you like a tour?” she offers, and follows it up with: “just a small one, on our way to the library.” 

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale replies, and it is, in fact, genuinely lovely. Aziraphale falls in step with her, matching Crowley’s strides as they stroll through the halls, past a drawing room, and elegant dining room. The house itself it beautiful, although— frozen. Stagnant in time. It seems there is very little of the actual house used, and Aziraphale has not yet seen a single other person. 

If anything, Aziraphale feels as if the house is simply haunted by memory, and not actually haunted, as if its better days are behind it since the passing of the Lord. 

But then she sees the portraits on the stairwell. 

Lady Crowley is gliding past them as if nothing is wrong, as if the faces of its subjects aren’t blurred out of every painting. It’s as if someone smudged them with water, trying to hide the evidence of who had come before, and Aziraphale can’t help but stare as they walk past the unsettling display. 

The main table in the library is stacked with thick texts, laid out for her, but Aziraphale is immediately taken with the rest of the collection, roaming past the meticulously organized shelves, beautiful stained windows and plush antique rug. Her eyes settle on a pair of worn armchairs in front of the fire, tilted towards each other in conversation, so obviously loved that Aziraphale’s heart aches in sympathy. 

There is another portrait above the mantle of the fireplace, of the Lady and her spouse, the late physicians face and body flaked and melted beyond recognition. Aziraphale studies it, trying to find meaning in its desecration. 

Lady Crowley clears her throat. “Doctor?” She asks cautiously. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale turns away from the portrait, “I forgot myself for a moment, forgive me.” 

The quirk of the widow's lips is strained. “It’s quite alright,” she assures her, leading Aziraphale back towards the medical texts. “The library is yours, with exception to the desk in the corner.” 

She points towards it, and Aziraphale can see diagrams and pinned to the wall, dust-covered books stacked high, and the bag of medical supplies tucked into the corner. Her late husband’s desk. 

You’re also free to explore the rest of the Manor as well, except for the Garden.” 

“Thank you, my Lady, but I’m sure I’ll be quite content in the library,” Aziraphale says, distracting herself as she examines one of the anatomy texts. 

“Please just… call me Crowley.” She says after a moment's hesitation, and Aziraphale feels a strange sense of camaraderie. 

“Of course,” she says. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, but I do prefer to go by my given name.” 

“Excellent,” Crowley nods once, drawing up to her full height. “I’ll come collect you when nuncheon is ready.” 

“Oh I couldn’t possibly—“ 

“Nonsense,” and the duties of a hostess seem to bring Crowley confidence, and Aziraphale reflects that she must not have entertained guests in quite some time. “I won’t allow the journals to leave the library, but you are more than welcome to stay as long as you wish. I could put together a spare bed as well if you would like, if you would like to stay through dinner as well.” 

Aziraphale stares at the widow, touched in a way that she cannot name, and finds that her token protest has died before it could reach her lips. “I suppose one night would be enough to finish my notes.” 

And there is a smile, small and pleased and oddly knowing on Crowley’s face, and it makes warmth curl in Aziraphale’s ribs at the sight of it. “I’ll come collect you soon then, Aziraphale.” 

The way she says her name shouldn’t make Aziraphale blush, but still she feels the flustered glow creep up on her. 

The widow's puzzling moods and touching hospitality are soon forgotten, however, as Aziraphale eagerly begins pouring over the first of the medical journals. The detailed diagrams and humorous footnotes indicate the late physician was both incredibly dedicated and relentlessly charming, and Aziraphale loses herself in the finer points of head trauma. 

It is only when the sun hits her eyes that Aziraphale realizes that time has passed, and she looks up to find a serving platter has been set out, cooled tea, meat and fruit waiting for her to notice them. 

Aziraphale, mortified at her own rudeness at missing what was, surely, her host’s attempts to collect her, drops her head in her hands with a heated curse. 

Her stomach growls, and she peeks out to look properly at the platter. The blackberries looked freshly picked, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters. When she reaches for one, it tastes like a memory of a home long-left behind, bright and bold with summer nostalgia. 

_My first morning passed without incident,_ she writes in her journal, as a way to take a small break. _I am more certain now that Crowley’s few initial months grieving probably brought out erratic behavior, such as the destruction of the portraits. Pushing away loved ones and the desertion of her staff in this time must have been the cause of the rumors._

_Now that she’s more adjusted, I’m sure that she is nothing more than a perfectly lovely woman, if a bit lonely. I’d have to know the cause of death of her partner to be sure, but I doubt it’s anything out of the ordinary._

____________________________________________________________________________

“I’m sure you’ll excuse the breach in decorum,” Crowley says as she presents them dinner in the library. “I don’t have the patience for it these days, and I am not a woman of much regard anymore anyway.” 

“You won’t offend me,” Aziraphale replies, “not when your cooking is this good.” 

“Scotch?” 

“Oh, _please_.” 

“So. Tell me what you think of the library,” Crowley says as she pours them two tumblers, and she offers one to Aziraphale before taking a seat in an armchair by the fire, the end table between them laden high. 

“You truly have an amazing collection,” Aziraphale immediately gushes, “your husband’s journals are incredibly detailed.” 

Crowley's mouth parts, faltering, and Aziraphale rushes to correct herself for bringing up an obviously sore subject. “I- what I mean to say is—“ 

“Sit,” Crowley gestures towards the opposite armchair, and her voice trembles a little. “Please.” 

“You must miss him terribly,” Aziraphale whispers as she does as ordered, and she doesn’t quite know what to do with the feeling of sitting in a dead man's armchair. 

“More than anything in the world,” the widow replies, an odd tone to her voice, “we traveled the world together, and spent every summer evening in the garden.” 

Something else in Aziraphale’s chest aches as well and, as soon as she recognizes it as jealousy, she swiftly tamps it down. 

“I would do anything to have her back,” Lady Crowley says, looking directly at Aziraphale with the admission, and even through the veil Aziraphale wilts under the gaze. 

“I apologize,” she says. “I did not mean to presume. I’m sure your wife was very lovely.” 

Crowley looks away quickly, almost guilty, and Aziraphale wonders about all the hints and hidden meanings that like-minded women like them have when it comes to expressing desire. 

She also wonders at the guilt she feels herself, for her suspicions of foul play are still present, albeit dulled— but the Lady looks so beautiful like this, framed by the light of the fire, comfortable in her grief like an old friend, and Aziraphale can not push herself to probe further. 

“May I ask why you don’t seem to have any staff?” She asks instead. “The Manor must be difficult to maintain on your own.” 

“Most left of their own volition,” the Lady explains, “the housekeepers were terribly superstitious, and were afraid the grounds were haunted.” Aziraphale notices very suddenly that Crowley did not voice her own opinion on the matter. 

“Besides,” Crowley continues, suddenly wry, “I am not entirely alone. There is an excellent mouser that makes up the last of my staff. Mercury isn’t the friendliest feline, but he has a soft spot for women.” 

“How quaint,” Aziraphale comments tightly. 

Even with the veil, she has the distinct impression that Crowley’s eyes are sparkling. “Not a fan of cats?”

“Rather, I would say they’re not a fan of me,” she gripes, and Crowley lets out a rather unladylike snort that turns into a giggle, and Aziraphale smiles. “It’s rather silly, I know.” 

“It’s not,” Crowley insists, but her voice is still light with mirth. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem avoiding each other.” 

“I’ve made a habit to avoid most men in my life anyway,” Aziraphale quips, and that sends both of them into a fit of giggles, warm from the fire and drink. 

Crowley launches into a story from her youth, of the trouble her and her family dog got into, and Aziraphale remains enchanted throughout the night, barely even noticing when Crowley fills her glass again. 

“Why don’t I show you to your room,” Crowley says eventually as they finish their second (third) nightcap, “you’re free to come back to the library after, but I’m afraid I must retire for the evening.” 

“That would be ideal,” Aziraphale says, thinking of the bouts of insomnia that would’ve had her sneaking back to the shelves anyway. It was better to have permission. “Thank you again for your hospitality.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” the widow says, and the odd tone is back, something tight having entered her tone, making Aziraphale frown. “This way.” 

Aziraphale is left with a soft farewell at the door of the guest room, and she can’t help but stare as Lady Crowley walks away, unsure of what had triggered the woman’s mood back into being so detached. 

Still, Aziraphale goes about a vague approximation of her nightly routine, washing with soap of rose-hips and lavender, and sheds a few of her outer layers, replacing it with a robe. Thick slippers peek out from the turned-over bed, and she gratefully steps into them, thinking of the cool floors leading to the library. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Aziraphale spots movement from the window, and ventures closer. 

Again! Light! The flickering of a lantern in the garden below. 

Aziraphale watches as a figure donned in brown leather stalks through the garden, casting impressive shadows in the night. The shock of red hair is illuminated in the warm glow, and Aziraphale spots intimidating sheers clutched in Lady Crowley’s other hand. 

Images of freshly dug earth in a forbidden garden, and portraits smudged in bouts of guilt assault her mind. 

It is a haunting idea, one that makes her shiver, even as she scolds herself for an overactive imagination. 

The widow carries the light of the lantern further into the expansive garden property, until she is naught but a silhouette in the distance, and Doctor Aziraphale knows now that she will not be leaving in the morning. 

She will stay until Crowley’s patience wears thin, or Aziraphale’s curiosity is satisfied, whichever comes first. 

____________________________________________________________________________

_I expected some sort of issue with housing me for longer than the agreed day,_ Aziraphale writes in her journal on the third morning of her stay. _But Crowley seems to anticipate my needs at every turn, going above and beyond and never once growing tired of my company. Yet, despite talking long into the evening, there is something that stops us from having a true connection, and I am unsure if it is her unwillingness to grow close to another woman during her period of mourning, or perhaps something darker. Her wife’s desk in the study remains a mystery, as does her garden and nightly excursions to God knows where. The portraits are another issue entirely—_

Aziraphale jumps back from her journal with a startled cry as a shape lunges for her, and it takes a few seconds too long for her to realize that it’s just a little black cat that has jumped onto the table, it’s eyes milky white and unseeing, yet they stare straight through her, the tip of a single fang protruding from its muzzle. 

“Hello,” she sighs, wearily. “Mercury, was it?” 

The cat yawns, showing its rows of sharp yellow teeth. 

“Right.” Aziraphale says. “If you would be so kind as to move away from my journal—“

She attempts to shoo him away with a small flap of her pen, but the cat merely glares, fixing its discolored gaze on her. 

“Yes well,” Aziraphale straightens her spine, “we’ve become acquainted now, yes? I believe it’s time for you to move along.” 

The cat lets out a croaking sound that might’ve been a reply, and jumps down from the table. 

Aziraphale humphs and raises her pen, only to be interrupted by a wavering mournful meow. 

Aziraphale gives him a baleful glare. “That’s quite enough.” 

His garbled cry pitches louder, more insistent as he pads towards the entryway, and Aziraphale, despite herself, gets up to follow. “You’re either asking for food or about to tell me more about your mistress,” she tells the cat, “and it better be the later, you ghastly beast.” 

It’s cries continue as they venture further from the library, and Aziraphale becomes more confident that she’s being led on a goose chase as Mercury stops in front of a door, his front paws stretching up to claw over existing scratches in the wood. 

“Fine,” she says as she opens the door, “but this is the end of our relationship, do you understand—“

Mercury let’s out a self-satisfied purr as he darts out into the garden, and Aziraphale is left to stare after him, the open door as enticing as any forbidden fruit. 

“As Eve looked upon the Apple,” she mutters after a long moment. “God help me.” And Aziraphale steps into the garden, lifting her skirts as she follows the overgrown path. 

Mercury is nowhere to be seen, but still Aziraphale ventures farther into the estate, passing lush plants and flowering trees, blossoming flowers seeming to strain towards her as she passes. 

It’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen. 

So caught up in the beauty, she doesn’t notice how deep into the labyrinth she has gotten until she turns around and realizes she has no bloody idea which path leads back to the Manor. The frustrating part is that she can very much _see_ the building _,_ but every path seems to lead her to another dead end. 

It’s only inevitable that she’d turn a corner and find Crowley at the other end, her hostess in coveralls and gardeners’ gloves. Aziraphale takes a sharp inhale; both at being caught, and finally being able to see the stunning gold eyes, reflecting sunflower bright without her veil. 

“ _What are you—_ “ 

Aziraphale is privately relieved that she doesn’t sound angry, but her voice does pitch up on a broken note of concern. “You _can’t_ , you must leave—“ 

“I’m sorry— your cat— he, um, got out?” Aziraphale tries to explain, living comfortably in that half-truth. 

“He knows what he can and can not be near,” Crowley dismisses it with a wave of her sheers. “You on the other hand—“ 

“I didn’t touch anything,” Aziraphale interrupts, “if that helps my case at all. I _am_ sorry, if you want me to leave I understand—“ 

Crowley holds up a hand but then falters, starting and stopping, and Aziraphale realizes that she has never seen the woman so flustered. 

“It’s the plants,” Crowley explains after a moment. “Some are medicinal, from my wife, but others are lethal to humans. Poisonous to touch.” 

Aziraphale freezes, ice dripping down her spine at the realization. “Oh,” she says simply. 

“Yes,” Crowley exhales through her nose, and something about the way she slumps her shoulder makes Aziraphale’s heart stumble inside her chest. “We grew a wide array of plants together, but of course absolutely nothing is labeled.” 

Aziraphale thinks back on the fresh vegetables that made up her meals. “And er—your vegetable garden?” 

“Off to the side,” Crowley says, and her grin, now that Aziraphale can see her face, is just as mischievous as she anticipated. “Separated by a wall, in case you were worried. I haven’t killed anyone yet.” 

Aziraphale pales. “Quite right,” she squeaks. 

“Come on then,” Crowley offers the arm that isn’t holding the shears. “Let me lead you back?” 

Aziraphale can see that a smudge of dirt had stuck to her face, her fly-away red hair illuminated by the afternoon light, and she wants nothing more than to reach forward and brush her thumb over Crowley’s cheek and wipe it away.

“Could— could I have a tour?” She asks instead, and leans forward a bit, earnest in her request. “Even if it’s just the medicinal herbs you mentioned.” 

Crowley’s face softens, and Aziraphale is close enough to see freckles dotting over the bridge of her nose. 

“As you wish,” Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale allows herself to be guided through the rows of plants.

They stay arm in arm the whole afternoon, sharing their individual knowledge of the plants’ properties and uses, and Crowley does not wear her veil again. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale doesn’t believe it to be possible to fall in love this quickly, and she also knows logically a weeks’ stay is too long—she has an office to open, patients in the village to treat—but she’s comfortable here, more comfortable than she has any right to be. 

_I am under no impression that I could ever possibly replace her wife._ Aziraphale writes, and is stubborn enough to believe what she puts to paper. _And I might not want to, for the fate of her wife is still something of a mystery. She is charming and persuasive, and distracts from the topic in a way that is almost natural, except in her continued persistence in avoiding it._

Aziraphale knows that they cannot continue on like this, and tells herself that this would be her last night, even as she folds herself into an armchair that she cannot define as ‘hers’ no matter how badly she wants to. 

Crowley is laying out tea for them, the afternoon sun spilling warm and heavy across the floor, but Aziraphale stares up at the portrait and is struck suddenly by a wave of grief for a woman she’ll never know. 

“Tell me about her,” Aziraphale requests, not looking away from the melted visage, and knows from the sudden lack of sound that Crowley has frozen next to her. “Please.” 

The sound of pouring tea returns, Crowley taking the time to think through her response. 

“She saw the best in people,” is her first answer, deliberate in its gentleness. “But never flinched from the worst. Steadfast, kind—“ and Crowley’s voice hitched on a laugh that holds no amusement. “With a naughty streak that got her into trouble more often than not. Could beat me in chess blindfolded and still cheated anyway.” 

“And how did she die?” Aziraphale asks, and holds nothing back, voice of silk and steel. 

“I can’t tell you that,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale’s eyes shut tight with its implication, shutting out the damnation that threatens to consume her. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley implores, “please look at me.” 

She shouldn’t, Aziraphale knows this implicitly— if she does she might do something horrible, something impulsive and dangerous like _forgive_ this woman she barely knows but recklessly trusts—

And she turns to look at this sulphur-brimstone woman, this radiant tempter, and grapples with a longing so intense she feels faint. 

Crowley’s whole body is begging, yearning within the confines of her chair for Aziraphale to be a little bit reckless. It’s bitten apple-red lips and wildfire hair and lonely-desperate eyes.

Aziraphale isn’t sure who leans forward first, their lips all but a breath away from each other, tilting together like something natural, like Aziraphale has been made to feel those lips on hers and no one else’s but—

But she is the first to pull away, the aching under her ribs outweighed by her suspicions growing black in her heart. 

“I cannot,” Aziraphale says softly. “These are not the best circumstances to start something like this.” 

Aziraphale watches as Crowley swallows her rejection, her golden gaze nearly molten. “I understand,” she says as she stands, long and elegant and dignified, even as she moves to leave, to recover her pride in private. “It is probably better this way.” 

“Crowley,” she calls from her armchair, and she feels sick to her stomach suddenly, voice a shaking echo. “I’m sorry, I truly am, but I need to know— how did your wife die?” 

Crowley pauses at the door. She looks behind her shoulder, but doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, her gaze distant. She remains poised, suspended for a moment like an ornament about to shatter. 

“She fell,” Crowley whispers the secret to her, and Aziraphale grips the arms of the chair, feeling like she’s about to fly apart at any moment and she, for some reason does not, _can not_ , respond. 

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” Crowley says after a moment, somber, resigned— and she doesn’t look back as she leaves, which is the one blessing Aziraphale has as her whole being begins to tremble, and she rises and stumbles towards the desk in the corner, breaking the last barrier of privacy the widow had. 

Aziraphale doesn’t understand why it takes her so long to reach the desk, and her panic as her body fails her grips her throat in its icy claws, the bitter aftertaste of tea as damning on her tongue as the petals of nightshade blooming in the summer sun. 

The truth dawns bright and painful in her chest, and she knows the answer is near— near— so close to the flame of truth she willingly thrusts her hand into the fire to reach it as she scrambles through the desk, opens a small drawer, and her fingers brush against the cool metal chain of a locket, its twin burning hot around her neck. 

She picks up the locket, and stares, and stares and _stares,_ her heart beating like the thundering hooves of a pale horse, the reaper himself looming above her, and she looks up at the mantle to confirm. 

Where there once was melted color, Aziraphale can see that the oil painting above the fireplace is now whole again. 

And her own face is staring back.


	2. Crowley

_“Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?” — Dracula_

Lady Antoinette Crowley knows what death is. 

She considers herself friendly with him, well-acquainted with the way grief has shaped her. An orphan, an apothecary, a doctor’s wife comforting the grieving, and now a widow herself. She has cupped nightshade in her palm, has nurtured foxglove and hemlock and breathed life into plants that only offered death. 

She knows what death is, and she absolves to trick him. The reaper has made a mistake, she’s sure of it— why else would her dear Aziraphale return to her, again and again? 

“Antoinette.” She hears the whisper behind her, and Crowley whirls around, staring at hard, stormy grey eyes. 

“You remember,” she breathes. She has never gotten this far before. “You remember my name, and you haven’t left.” 

“I have before?” Aziraphale asks, and it sounds like the moment before a wineglass breaks. 

“Many times,” Crowley says, and it’s not an accusation, simply a sad truth. 

“Why didn’t you-“ Aziraphale opens and shuts her mouth, and Crowley can see the gears turning, see the slight translucency that comes when her concentration wavers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You leave whenever I do,” Crowley says, “and reappear some time later, and we do it all over again.” She shrugs, lifting one shoulder as if it was a normal occurrence, and not a pattern that has come close to driving her mad. “I’ve even tried sending you away, but you stubbornly insist on haunting this drafty old place.” 

“It has character,” comes the reflex response of an old argument, but then her lips part, brows furrowed. “I am the ghost that’s driven everyone away, aren’t I?” 

Crowley takes a hesitant step closer, unwilling to go too fast, to push too hard, for fear of resetting the cycle yet again. “I’ve learned that there is no force in Heaven or Earth that will stop you from doing what you want.” She says instead as an answer, and tries to add a touch of humor to it. “Not even Death.” And she smiles for added effect, and for the first time in a long time, Aziraphale fully, truly, _coherently_ smiles back, bright and beautiful on her wife’s translucent face, and Crowley— 

Crowley bursts into tears. 

“Oh my dear girl,” Aziraphale murmurs, and the distance is closed between them, her hands going through the motions of cupping Crowley’s face, of drying her tears. “My starshine, my beloved. The pain I must’ve put you through—“ 

“I’ll go through it a thousand times more,” Crowley answers, the near-forgotten petname bringing another sob to the surface. “If it will give me just a little more time with you. The fact that you remember this time means more than I can say.” 

Aziraphale searches her face, eyes roaming over her with true recognition of the situation. “I still loved you,” she says softly, and Crowley can’t breathe under the gentle weight of her words. “It’s the one thing I could never forget.” 

“What held you back?” Crowley asks, and watches as Aziraphale blushes, a strange spot of color on her washed-out appearance. 

“Well— it’s rather interesting you see, all the— all the evidence pointed to a rather embarrassing conclusion in hindsight.” 

Crowley smiles gently as she flounders, Aziraphale deflating under her own embarrassment until eventually mumbles: “I thought your spouse had met a grizzly end through one of your poisonous plants.” 

Crowley tries to find any emotion in her chest other than fond amusement, and comes up short. “You think me capable of murder, my dear?” 

“Not actually!” Aziraphale protests, and the pout gracing her lips is so adorable Crowley has to fight back another wave of tears. 

“You, my angel, have read far too many of your detective novels.” She scolds instead, affectionate and overcome. 

“As you’ve told me time and time again,” Aziraphale counters. “Although I suppose I can grant you victory in this particular argument.” 

Crowley stares through her, wishing to hold this moment in her cupped palms, knowing this moment of clarity is too good to last, and she already aches with its inevitable loss. 

“I love you,” she gasps, a rush. “I never told you enough—“ 

“I know,” Aziraphale whispers. “Crowley _I’m here,_ I don’t know how or why, but your love was never in doubt, I can promise you that.” 

They fold into each other naturally, an arrangement of arms and foreheads near-pressed together in harmony, Aziraphale’s presence an echo of a familiar embrace. 

“Part of me believes this to be the final coda of my spiral into madness,” Crowley admits. 

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle. “Would you like me to prove my new lucidity to you?” 

Crowley hums. “There’s no secret of yours that I don’t already know, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s smile turns a little bit guilty. “I hid that obnoxious record you like so much under some bibles on the bottom shelf.” 

“ _You_ ,” Crowley blinks, and then narrows her eyes. “I’ve been looking for that for _months_ you little— _”_

“It’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead,” Aziraphale says quickly, all false innocence, looking up at her with such _life_ that Crowley does not care if she has become the lonely madwoman, does not care if the cycle of amnesia lasted as long as it did. 

It was worth it. 

____________________________________________________________________________

“I died in the garden, didn’t I?” Aziraphale asks one night, while they’re ‘eating’ together, play-acting normalcy. Crowley has attempted to feign placing empty plates and platters in front of her like before; but Aziraphale is now aware of her condition, and touch-memory of food and drink no longer appears.

“It wasn’t your plants,” Aziraphale continues as Crowley’s knife chargers against her plate, movements suddenly stiff. “You were worried I would remember.” 

Crowley places her hands in front of her, white-knuckled on the table. “Yes and no,” she says tightly, and squeezes her eyes shut, vainly trying to push away the visions that assault her. 

“Crowley,” and her voice is soft, Aziraphale having appeared at her side in an instant. “I won’t leave you if you tell me.” 

“You can not possibly know that,” she whispers back. 

“I can,” and Aziraphale goes through the motions of covering Crowley’s hand with her own. “Have faith.” 

Crowley stares, and commits this moment to memory; but she could never refuse her angel. Not even in this. “There are steps in the very back of the garden,” she breathes, low and resigned. “Steep and sharp stones that lead out to the moor. It was winter, and the ice—” 

“I fell,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s stomach churns, visions of broken skin, broken bones, a broken neck—

“Aye,” she swallows, “our groundskeeper found you.” And her heart and voice break. “You started appearing three days later.” 

“How biblical of me,” Aziraphale says, gentle in her teasing, but she’s still there, still _whole_ , not fragmented or floating or wailing, and Crowley takes in a shuddering breath of relief. 

“Please don’t go back there,” she asks, and she reaches up to hold onto the faint edges of Aziraphale’s face. “You’re not coherent when you do.” 

“I thought I never remembered myself before this,” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley suppresses a shiver. 

“It’s worse than simply forgetting,” and Crowley doesn’t dare clarify, as if addressing it will bring it forward once more. “Promise me, angel.” 

“For you,” Aziraphale agrees, and although Crowley can tell she doesn’t quite understand, Aziraphale still leans forward to mime a kiss to her forehead, and Crowley relishes the phantom memory. 

“I want to figure this out,” Aziraphale declares softly, “I’m sorry if it upsets you.” 

“It’s your life,” Crowley responds. “It’s your right to, but I—“

Crowley’s eyes flick to Aziraphale’s open journal where her plate would be, the pages overrun with ink, tears where her pen has scratched through. She has wrote all through dinner, muttering and piecing together and turning over her own mortality in her clever clever mind, and Crowley feels confident that to her, those pages are perfectly crisp and blank. 

She flicks her eyes back up to Aziraphale’s waiting face, and knows, deep in her bones, that there is no solution. 

“But no more tonight,” she implores, and leaves her dinner behind, moving to set up the gramophone. 

She gathers Aziraphale as close as she can, despite the inability to actually hold her to her chest. Soft melodies wash through the study, bathing them in its comforting sound. “Dance with me?”

Aziraphale’s expression is patiently fond, knowing that parts of Crowley are fragile now, parts they will never discuss. They sway together, Crowley’s arms aching as they rest on empty space, but she holds the position stubbornly through the songs, desperate for a normalcy that will never come. 

“It’s the best I’ve ever danced,” Aziraphale murmurs eventually, her head tilted and eyes shut, as if to rest on Crowley’s chest. “I think the floating part helps.” 

“Does it now?” Crowley says slowly, smiling. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale says. “I wish you didn’t have to suffer this in-between. I wish I could give you all of me or another chance to find joy.” 

Crowley stops, a wave of panic lurching through her at the thought, and Aziraphale lifts her eyes to meet hers, as they stare in mutual heartbreak. “I don’t know if I could.” Crowley whispers. “I have been in love with no one, and never shall, unless it should be with you.” 

“Then be with me you shall,” Aziraphale whispers back. “And I will try to be worthy of your love.” 

“You are,” Crowley trembles as she guides them back into a gentle sway. “Believe me angel, you _are._ ”

____________________________________________________________________________

They had talked over dinner about the novel they were reading, Crowley reading it out loud for them both, and their discussion had followed through the nightcap and then some, walking together down the hall to the master bedroom. 

It had been natural, a habit formed over the years, and Crowley realized rather belatedly that since her memory had returned, Aziraphale hadn’t been back to their bedroom. 

The conversation comes to a natural pause, and Crowley leaves Aziraphale to circle the room, not wanting to intrude on her reflection. Crowley had left her vanity alone, and the image of Aziraphale standing by it now moves her more than she anticipated, the simple domesticity aching in her ribs. 

Crowley forces herself to look away, and gets ready for the night. 

“How long has it been?” Aziraphale asks as she undresses, and Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. 

“Since February,” she replies. “About six months.” _5 months and 26 days since the funeral._

“And all other times, I was just a guest?” 

Crowley shivers in her chemise and stockings, focusing on pulling the pins from her hair, curls tumbling down her shoulders. “You barely remembered who _you_ were darling, I don’t fault you for falling back on manners with a stranger.” 

“And you’ve had no other guests either?” There’s an inflection to her voice Crowley can’t quite place, and when she turns, she finds that Aziraphale has drifted closer, _closer_ , and her eyes are fixed on Crowley’s exposed throat. 

“I’ve made a reputation for myself,” Crowley murmurs, feeling pinned in place. “And you haven’t helped. You scared my cousin Patricia off within a week.” 

“I’ve contributed to your isolation,” Aziraphale says, “I’ll have to rectify that,” but she doesn’t sound apologetic at all, half lidded eyes moving from her neck and sweeping down to take in the whole of her. “Sit.” 

Crowley inhales sharply, suddenly warm, and the moment is drawn out, a particular heat thrumming in her veins. 

Crowley sits in her vanity’s chair, knees suddenly weak, and places her arms on the rests automatically, her head all the way back. 

Aziraphale is practically glowing in the moonlight, hovering over her, ethereal and _beautiful._ “How did you describe me? With a naughty streak?” 

“One that rivals mine,” she says tightly. “You just don’t advertise it.” 

“You’re right,” Aziraphale breathes, and she reaches out, tracing soft fingers over the back of Crowley’s hand. “I save it just for you.” 

She urges Crowley to lift her hand, coaxing her shaking palm to press again her breast, and when Crowley thumbs her nipple through the material, she sees Aziraphale’s eyes darken, a familiar possessive _want._

Her eyes flick to the side, to Crowley’s free hand; a pink tongue wetting pale lips. “Lift up your shirt for me.” 

Crowley traces the edges of the chemise and pulls it up, the warm summer wind teasing her thighs, and she forgets to be coy, forgets even how to breathe, at attention for her next order. 

Aziraphale glides her hand lower, and Crowley helplessly follows it with her own, gasping softly when their eyes meet, her fingers tracing warm over her folds. 

“Show me,” Aziraphale requests, the space between their lips electrified, and Crowley drags a thumb over her clit with a mortified moan. 

“Good girl,” Aziraphale praises, “like I would.” 

Her fingers twitch, stuttering out a pace, desperate for sensation, and Aziraphale clicks her tongue. 

“Slower,” she chides gently. “Did you already forget how I touch you?” 

“No,” Crowley finds her voice again. “You just tease.” 

“Oh darling,” Aziraphale’s smile is sharp in the moonlight. “You have no idea. Hitch your leg up for me, that’s it— let me see all of you.” 

_“Aziraphale,”_ she’s breathless, scandalized, _enraptured,_ and Crowley can’t do anything but obey, one thigh over the armrest, the sharp angle of the wood digging into her skin. 

She is exposed, more indecent than she’s been in months, a bold little thrill of putting on a show sparking through her spine; because _yes_ , she can do this. _This_ is something she’s good at, and she’s only ever had one member to make up her audience. 

She forgets how much her audience likes to participate. 

“Pinch your thigh,” Aziraphale murmurs to her, and Crowley did with a little gasp, tilting her head back to show off her collarbone, the bony clavicle that had once lived with deep bruises more often than without. 

Crowley sweeps her other hand down her spread thigh and then up her slit, gathering wetness, pausing to wait for permission, and Aziraphale smiles.

“Just one,” she agrees. “To keep you wanting.” 

Crowley is panting, one hand rolling her clit under her fingers, the other slowly pushing a finger inside of herself, thin and familiar and not _nearly_ enough. 

“I’m already wanting,” she replies, somewhat tetchy. 

“And I promised I’d fix that for you didn’t I?” Aziraphale sounds absent, like Crowley’s complaints were an afterthought, a touch condescending as she looms over her chair, her prim and proper little Doctor looking so controlled, so efficient and _gorgeous_ as she controls Crowley’s pleasure. 

“Aziraphale _please,”_ Crowley’s hips roll in the chair, chasing that thrum of static building under her palm. “It’s not going to take long.” 

“I know that look,” Aziraphale’s eyes sweep over her, drinking in the sight. “You love the limelight. Do you really want your little show to finish so soon?” 

“You’re the _regisseur_ ,” Crowley says, baiting her. “Isn’t that up to you?” 

“Quite right,” Aziraphale nods then, following along as her smile gains the edge of a smirk. “We can consider this Act I.” 

Crowley flushes at the implication, tensing as pressure builds, and she whines as she tries to find a steady pace, shaking around one finger. “How many Acts are you planning?” 

“A _regisseur_ would be in charge of two,” Aziraphale says, “but I’m an admirer of Shakespeare's five-act structure myself.” 

Crowley curses, and her mouth drops open and her head falls back and she looks at her wife through half-lidded eyes, toes curling in the air and Aziraphale’s eyes flash, a gorgeous _dangerous_ expression. “Three fingers love, _now.”_

Crowley’s gasp gets caught in her throat as she does, suddenly full, and she curls them _up_ , sparks bursting behind her eyes as the rest of her body freezes, seizing up in pleasure as she brings herself over the edge. She shudders, pleasure rolling through her, and then Aziraphale _moves,_ dream-like, as Crowley traces rough patterns over her clit, drawing out her orgasm. 

Aziraphale drops herself at Crowley’s feet as if to _taste_ her, her head between her thighs, focusing solely on the core of her, on the way Crowley drips onto the hard wooden seat, and Aziraphale looks likes she desperately wants to push her hand out of the way, desperate to pleasure her, watch as she falls apart on her tongue— 

Crolwley _moans,_ loud and high and needy as she comes again, a second wild crest battering her body as she clenches down on three fingers.

Sore thighs cramp and twitch, and slowly, ever so slowly, Aziraphale’s eyes rise to meet hers. 

Crowley’s clit twitches as Aziraphale bites her lip, her eyes dark and near-hypnotic. “Taste yourself love?” she asks. “For me?” 

And Crowley, helplessly, _desperately_ , obeys. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Much to Crowley’s distress, Aziraphale’s choice of reading has taken a turn for the morbid— for _research_ , Crowley has read out loud from as many books on the afterlife as they could find in their library. 

Misprinted bibles, works of fiction, tales and fables and psalms, and most recently— _rituals_. 

And Crowley can’t say no, no matter how futile she believes it to be. 

“Where are these even stolen from?” Crowley mutters, squinting at the strange collection of lines that were haphazardly labeled as ‘runes.’

“I can’t say,” Aziraphale replies, looking over her shoulder. “There’s a high chance it’s made-up nonsense— where did you say you found these?” 

“Your great uncle,” Crowley replies wryly, “they’re from your inherited collection you never bothered to unpack from his trunk.”

“The first one I picked up was about the many cures for female hysteria,” Aziraphale replied, equally dry. “I didn’t think the rest were worth surveying.” 

“They weren’t,” Crowley admitted, and they shared a grin. “But there were some in the bottom that were rubbish, labeled as _occultist_.” 

“If I remember correctly, you also labeled the King James the same.” Aziraphale points out. “Not feeling pious upon proof of the supernatural?”

Crowley didn’t bother to grace that pointed comment with a glare, instead keeping her eyes on the diagram and descriptions of ‘runes.’ 

“The only thing I’ll ever ask the Lord for is strength to put up with a Doctor that thinks she’s being clever.” 

“Oh, what a shame you didn’t ask for strength for one that _knows_ she is.” 

“You’re going to make me smudge this,” Crowley drawls, trying not to smile and failing miserably. “Let me focus.” 

“So long as your _focusing.”_ Aziraphale says, because getting in the last word was her speciality, but she floats quietly next to her wife, watching her steady hand enshrine power into the altar cloth. 

“This will work,” Aziraphale says next, so certain, so _alive_ in her faith _._ “It will.” 

Crowley swallows, and the lump that suddenly forms in her throat is hard to choke down, because she’s _tired,_ oh so tired. 

“And what if it doesn’t?” Crowley whispers, not daring to look to her right. “What if nothing ever does?” 

“Then I’ll do my best to move on,” Aziraphale’s voice is warm and comforting, like thumbs tracing over the dip in her spine, because she _knows_ Crowley’s doubts, of course, because she always does. “Death is the absence of life, my starshine, not the end of it. It just takes a different form, one we’re not meant to see. Know that I’ll be waiting for you, no matter what.”

Crowley nods, tears threatening to build, and she places her hands on the cloth, and Aziraphale leans over her and places her hands _in_ hers, two overlapping palms and knuckles and veins. The clouds on the horizon threaten rain, and the two face the barren moor with something akin to hope. 

“I love you,” and Crowley lets her eyes slip shut for a moment, just one, and lets Aziraphale’s echoed sentiment soothe her pounding heart. 

And Crowley _prays,_ pouring as much faith as she can into it, because she needs a new outcome, she needs something to _change_. 

And the universe responds. 

There is a figure before them, the endless night of his wings cutting jagged holes in the grey sky. 

_**YOU SUMMONED ME?**_

He asks, and it fills Crowley’s chest with ice, a fear for which no words exist. 

_**THIS SHOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE. THIS CIRCLE IS MADE OF GIBBERISH.** _

“Reaper,” she addresses him, chin raised despite her deep-seated instinct to _cower._ “My name is Antoinette Crowley, and— and I would like to, er, make a deal?”

_**CROWLEY?** _

He tastes her name on his tongue, a new curiosity building behind his words, and although he doesn’t move, they both get the impression that his eyes have swung to her right. 

_**AND AZIRAPHALE?** _

“Yes,” she replies, steadfast and resolute and Crowley has never loved her more. 

_**WELL, THIS IS UNUSUAL. YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE.** _

“Oh, I know _that.”_ Aziraphale replies curtly, and Crowley throws her a look that is both scandalized and delighted _._ “I would appreciate being brought fully back to the land of the living if I was truly taken before my time.” 

_**I MEANT BOTH OF YOU.**_

Death clarifies, not really clarifying at all. 

_**REINCARNATION AS PUNISHMENT AND THEY DON’T EVEN DO IT RIGHT ON THE FIRST GO AROUND.** _

“Punishment?” Crowley squeaks right as Aziraphale says, “Reincarnation?” 

_**I’LL TELL YOU WHAT.** _

Death tilts his head. 

_**IT’S GOING TO BE A PAIN DEALING WITH YOU ACROSS TIME FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY, AND YOUR HEAD OFFICES DIDN’T THINK TO ASK MY OPINION ON THE MATTER, WHICH I FIND QUITE RUDE. SO I’LL DO YOU A FAVOR.** _

Crowley reaches up to rub her temples with chalk-stained fingers, the novelty of the situation wearing off and turning into a tension headache instead. “There is some important detail we seem to be missing, and I would appreciate it if you would get to the point.” 

_**YOUR IMMORTAL SOULS ARE QUITE LITERALLY IMMORTAL.** _

Crowley’s headache starts to get intense, bright and blossoming behind her eyes. 

_**HOW YOU FOUND EACH OTHER AGAIN, IN THE SAME TIME PERIOD, EVEN I DON’T KNOW.** _

“You’re Death,” Aziraphale says slowly, and Crowley tries to focus on her, feeling quite suddenly like her time has run out, but the bleached skeleton bone draws her gaze as her migraine gets worse, his graveyard grin wide and amused. “Aren’t you supposed to know everything?” 

_**NOT EVERYTHING. THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT WILL ALWAYS REMAIN INEFFABLE.** _

And he winks. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Nearly two centuries in the future, the day after the apocalypse, an Angel and Demon land back in the Ritz, where nearly an hour before they had just had a celebratory toast. They stare for a moment, struggling with the weight of a human lifetime they were never supposed to experience. 

“We were married,” says the Angel. 

“We were,” and the Demon’s voice breaks. “You died.” 

“But I came back to you,” Aziraphale whispers. “You must know that I always will darling, you _must_ know.” 

Crowley blinks back tears, and tries to be brave. “If— if I ask you to marry me again, here, as ourselves, would you say yes? Because I— I’ve wanted to. Have always wanted to, for centuries.” 

Aziraphale stares, expression crumbling, and then looks around the Ritz, and _then_ carefully, very carefully, glances skyward. “Our freedom was so brief, my dear. What’s stopping them from trying again?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replies, glancing downward. “Everything? Sod it, Angel _please—“_

“One condition,” Aziraphale interrupts, affectionate and soft, and doesn’t even try to hide the tears that fall when their hands touch, closing the gap between them. “We aren’t getting a cat.” 

And Crowley laughs, the delighted sound of sorrow finally lifting from one’s shoulders. 

(“We should thank Azrael,” Aziraphale murmurs at one point. 

“I’ll send them a gift basket.” Crowley mutters, smiling at their joined hands). 

“I love you,” one of them says. It doesn’t matter who. 

They both say it often enough from then on. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Nearly two centuries in the past, a little black cat sits and stares at Death, its milky eyes reflecting thousands of distant stars. 

_**GOOD KITTY.**_

He extends one bony hand for the creature to sniff. 

_**LET’S GO SEE WHAT OTHER SURPRISES AWAIT US.** _

The sun rises on Eden Manor, and an empty garden is left behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took an embarrassing amount of time to post my first f/f. Yes I am a lesbian, no I don't take constructive criticism. 
> 
> Dracula had better quotes for this, but there is a honorable mention Carmilla quote in there. 
> 
> Also shout out to the poisonous plant Lords-and-ladies (Arum maculatum) that didn’t make the cut, even though it has many other wonderful names such as snakeshead, adder's root, devils-and-angels and Adam-and-Eve.


End file.
